This pleading child, his hands gripping the sleeve of her dress and hiding his wet face in the folds of her skirt, suddenly presented himself as the very thing that could fill the emptiness in her heart. The child’s large brown eyes were filled with tears and his silky dark hair looked disheveled. Reyhan recognized him. He was Kadan, the son of a concubine in the court. She lowered her body and embraced Kadan, breathing in the smell of his hair. It was as if the child’s need and hers mingled to fill both hearts with love. How fulfilling it would be to be a mother!
The next day while Reyhan excitedly narrated a story from the Book of Kings to Kadan, she looked up and noticed that Kadan’s mother was watching them. In a hurry to explain the intimate conversation with the child, Reyhan said, “I could teach him. I could teach him foreign languages and skills he is going to need when he grows up.”
His mother’s silence conveyed her consent. After all, she would have had to forgo a great deal of pleasure if she had to take on the full responsibility of raising the child.
Chapter Fifteen
The Lonely Chronicler
For Reyhan, time passed slowly at Karakorum, and it sped up only when the warriors were departing for a military mission. Two years were spent teaching Kadan, an occupation with attendant pleasures and difficulties. He resisted learning new things, but a few subjects excited his imagination, mostly military adventures and wars of the past. In such cases, he absorbed the material rather quickly; however, he found languages and culture, arts and literature, tedious beyond measure.
Despite Reyhan’s efforts, Kadan’s brain remained rough and unsophisticated like a pumice stone. Just nine-years-old and he had already developed a patronizing habit of looking at her as if she was someone beneath him. That aggressive sense of superiority which marked the Mongols had lately infected the young lad as well. A Mongol soldier of low rank would feel superior to the most well-known foreign nobles. At the same time, with their authority ripped away from them, the noblemen of subjugated nations shared a sense of camaraderie with their former foes who had become their cellmates.
At first, Toregene tolerated the growing attention that Reyhan was receiving as a teacher but eventually, jealousy began to sprout within her heart. One sunny day, as Reyhan taught her pupil Persian poetry in the garden, Toregene, yanked Kadan off the stone bench where he was sitting and loudly announced, “No Mongol child should learn the language of defeated nations,” her nails digging into the poor lad’s arm.
As she lectured the boy, an old Chinese gardener was pruning the branches of a nearby birch tree. Toregene turned and kicked the poor man on the shin yelling, “Foreigner!” as she strutted away.
“You are a heartless woman who knows not how to treat others kindly, plus Kadan is not your child,” Reyhan cried out.
The bickering had been loud enough to attract the attention of Ogodei and a number of courtiers. Toregene always wanted to avenge Ogodei’s earlier attachment to Reyhan, mostly because, on more than one occasion, Ogodei had alluded to Reyhan’s unparalleled beauty when he wed her.
Days earlier, another minor incident had almost brought their brewing tension out into the open. It was late in the afternoon. Reyhan was about to take the steps that led to the entrance of Amgalan palace, apparently unaware that Toregene was a few steps behind her. Toregene finding this an opportune moment to assert her superior status, climbed the stairs fast and, sidestepping Reyhan, almost pushed her out of the way to enter the palace first. She was surprised when Reyhan showed no reaction, except blushing.
However, Toregene’s resentment had been barely noticeable, until this latest incident. For the first time she had openly confronted Reyhan in a way that everyone noticed, and there was no holding her back. Although hardships had left their marks on Reyhan’s once porcelain face, Toregene feared that her rival still retained enough allure to charm her way back into Ogodei’s heart.
Reyhan watched as Toregene left the scene looking livid. She knew life in Amgalan Palace would never be the same, and she would now have little to recommend her to the Mongol Khaqan. She would be marginalized, and life within the walls of Amgalan Palace would become nearly impossible.
That very night a tearful Toregene confided in her husband about all that Reyhan had done, and with great animation, she made up a long list of the evil deeds that she attributed to her rival. “Reyhan continuously puts me down in front of other courtiers, she talks behind my back, and the other day she almost pushed me off the railing as I was descending the steps from the upper rooms. Being around her, I have to constantly fear for my life!”
With their tensions laid bare, Ogodei ordered a separate palace to be constructed where Reyhan could “retire” without ever running into Toregene again. Under the circumstances, Reyhan did not mind at all. She only asked that Persian artisans who served at the Mongol court undertake the construction. Ogodei granted her wish. In the meantime, she continued to reside at Amgalan Palace waiting for the new structure to be built.
After the open confrontation with Toregene, almost everyone in the Mongol court avoided Reyhan; acting as if she did not exist. After all, Toregene had Mongol blood in her, and no foreigner had the right to insult her. The isolation had its merits, however, for it gave her a chance to think and to write.
Reyhan looked out the window of her chamber. It was indeed a dreary day. Instead of the glorious colored leaves of shades that put gemstones to shame, autumn in Karakorum had brought with it an unbearable natural phenomenon known as zud, a harsh blizzard originating from the frozen lands of the Arctic that was intolerable. A freezing wind blowing outside mercilessly ripped life out of living plants and livestock, turning to ice every blade of grass, and killing the earth upon which it blew.
Reyhan had learned to appreciate solitude when writing became her sole companion. In her journal, her imagination was unleashed, and the world in her mind took shape in a way that was more to her liking, less confused. Yet, she longed for summer days when she could sit with Baako on a bench in an inconspicuous corner of the garden and talk endlessly about Ogodei’s foreign adventures. Baako, initially illiterate, had learned the Chinese language from Chaka who had spent her spare time teaching him. He had translated the text of Chaka’s chronicles for Reyhan who had in turn begun recording her own observations.
A chambermaid brought Reyhan a small glass of hot tea on a saucer with two bits of hardened sugar broken off a sugar cone. She had been yearning to get back to her writing, and the zud had provided that rare opportunity for her to do so fearlessly. She knew she would not be surprised by intruders, her husband being foremost in that category.
She scraped the tip of a tall feather with a small knife, dipped it in a silver inkpot, and began to write.
Entry by Reyhan:
I had a lengthy conversation with Baako when he returned from the front. He tells me that for the Mongols, vengeance is the norm, mercy a luxury they can ill afford. Life is centered on revenge, and getting even with their foes brings meaning to their existence. I for one know that for Ogodei war is like a gamble, a thrill-filled adventure that can lead to one’s death or that of one’s foe. In Baako’s words, what is at stake is life itself and the stars like dice will decide one’s fate.
City life dulls the ears of cultured warriors and reduces the keenness of their sight. Their souls have become malleable, and they have soft spots in their hearts even for the enemy, while the hearts of the Mongols are not softened by literature and the intricacy of art. When it comes to killing, they do not think twice before plunging a dagger into the heart of their enemy.
The Mongol army moves at the speed of lightning. They kill with equal zeal all that stand in their way, allowing some of the maimed and injured to flee to nearby towns and villages. By doing so resistance wanes, making the inhabitants easy prey. With each attack or ambush, the Mongol warriors grow in sophistication and discipline. Resistance is futile.
&nb
sp; Among the foreigners who are forced to work at the Mongol court, there are some of my countrymen through whom I have learned news of my homeland. The story of the Jackal is of particular interest to me. The Mongols had offered him the position of governor of Otrar, provided that he guides them to Bukhara through the desert of Kyzyl Kum.
Considering the cruel manner in which they killed the former governor, he had decided that his fate would not fare much better. Before reaching the intended destination, though his hands were tied, he managed to roll off the horse on which he was mounted, and slid into a nearby ravine.
They travelled at dusk to avoid the heat of the desert, and the light of the moon was not strong enough for them to see their surroundings clearly. They had no dogs to sniff out the Jackal, and after some fruitless searches, the Mongols decided they would have to find another desert dweller to lead them. Soon afterward, the Jackal escaped toward the south, forming his own group of vigilantes that engaged the Mongols at times and saved targeted communities at others by giving them advance warning.
Reyhan took a sip of her tea and thought about all that had passed. Religious and ethnic minorities lived throughout Khwarazm territories. However, the greatest concentration of them had made Yazd, a hospitable oasis by the desert, their home. The first group that lived there were the Zoroastrians who considered fire holy and always kept a pit of fire lit. Then came the Jews who took pride in being Persian since Ester, a captive in Babylon, was saved by a Persian King and became his queen. Christians as well as Shia Muslims, a minority in the mostly Sunni Persia, formed the other inhabitants of Yazd.
Unlike the many cities and provinces in Persia that the Mongols devastated, Yazd was spared. The governor of Yazd had wisely diverted Mongol attacks against the province by agreeing to pay everything the treasury held to meet the demands of the invading army. Tragically, some remote areas, the first targets of the attack, were trampled upon before any action took place to halt the onslaught.
Reyhan began reminiscing about home, the landscapes, the houses, the people, the children. She brushed off a droplet of tear as she gulped down what was left of her tea. She then decided to think only about those who had survived and reached for her quill to write the following tale.
Entry by Reyhan:
Traces of a Hand
Little Yousef and his family lived in the suburbs of Yazd. Yusef had a favorite tree. Named after Joseph the Prophet, they called him by the Persian phonation “Yousef.” He could only climb up the first two bulky branches of the tree but it sufficed for it gave him a panoramic view of the distant mountains. The early morning weather felt a bit cold, but he didn’t mind since he was pretending to be king for a day.
The suburbs like other areas of Yazd Province looked like a sea of brown colors; brown mud-brick homes and brown dirt roads surrounded by brown mountains. The turquoise-blue sky contrasted with the terrain. Rivers, lakes, oceans were nowhere to be seen, but patches of flowers added bursts of bright color to the mellow landscape.
The hefty trunks of tall trees rested against fences built with piled-up mud bricks. Their branches appeared black in the early morning light. Yousef climbed onto a branch where he could see the horizon. No snow ever capped those mountains, and they remained as brown as the rest of the landscape throughout the year. But on that morning, there appeared to be a black cloud hovering over the peaks. It was as if ants were crawling down the mountaintops toward the town.
He climbed down and ran to his mother, sitting by the kitchen window. His tongue protruded through his top two missing teeth which made a funny sound when he pronounced certain letters. “Mamma. Mamma. Antz are crawling down the hillz.”
“Yousef, it is Easter Sunday, and we are headed to the church, so you better get dressed instead of climbing up trees like a monkey.”
“Seven-year-olds have such imagination,” Armineh thought. She had to raise her four boys and her daughter by herself since her husband died of consumption four years ealier. Her children, the eldest child Yahya, a boy of nineteen, the twins Malek and Murad, almost thirteen, and the youngest, Ida, two years younger than Yousef, were her treasures.
Armineh rolled up the straw blind and opened the kitchen window. In her small yard, she had planted every imaginable herb and a variety of flowers for medicinal purposes, some already blooming and some past their blooming time. Songs of birds echoed in her ears as a soft breeze blew in her face. Morning dew had settled on the open buds. Hope climbed gently into her heart. One day her children would grow up, and they would no longer need her care. They would get married in the same church where she had said her vows.
How quickly time had passed. Her husband’s early death had left her with many cares. Her sole supporter now was her eldest son, who despite his young age, had taken on the responsibility of a small apothecary shop they owned. When still a child, Yahya had memorized the names of all the herbs his father kept in his cabinets. He later persevered in learning their uses from a friend of his father who practiced medicine.
Armineh’s gaze lingered as she took a mental inventory of her crop. She would harvest most of the herbs for her son’s shop, and some would be left for her to use in the large pickling jars she kept downstairs in the wine cellar.
It was a rather chilly morning. Armineh tried buttoning Yousef’s jacket as he stuck out his tummy, a common habit of children that age. She realized that the hand-knit piece was getting a bit small for him. The last button would not close. She decided just to leave it open. She would have to make him a new sweater. “Yarns are expensive,” she sighed to herself. She could undo the yarn on this one and remake it into a ruffled little sweater for Ida.
Yousef kept staring at the last button, his cheeks drooping. But the concern she saw in his big brown eyes when he looked up was not about the button. “There are antz crawling down the hillz,” he repeated. As he spoke, the pale white light of the early morning sun illuminated his angelic face.
Armineh would have normally dismissed Yousef’s comments, thinking maybe ants had crawled up his pants but when she looked, she could not find any on his body. She frowned pensively. Last night she had had a premonition of something terrible happening. She sent her eldest son out to investigate what had troubled the child.
Armineh’s family had moved from Yazd’s central city, which bore the same name as the province, to the outskirts for a more affordable life. The small church on Shiraz Street, not far from where they lived, made the location of their home somewhat convenient.
Armineh’s ancestors had watched their countrymen convert from Zoroastrianism to Islam while they remained Christians. Centuries of coexistence formed human bonds that went beyond religious definitions. Mutual kinships had developed over time, and they had opened their hearts and homes to one another. Naturally, intermarriages had occurred and equally natural, there were funerals in which both sides shared a singular grief within their mud-brick homes.
In Armineh’s neighborhood lived many Shia families who took part in an annual mourning ceremony they called “Ashoura.” She could little understand the intensity of their religious fervor or the complexity of their rituals, but they were her countrymen, and she wanted to show her support for anything that touched their souls so deeply. Their chanting and chest-beating seemed intense and emotional, and their tears were certainly sincere.
Armineh had committed herself to making a saffron-scented rice pudding each year during Ashoura. She would stand by the side of the street among the devoted and hand out bowls of warm pudding to the mourners. Thus, she had become known as the little Armenian lady who served the best saffron pudding.
Their annual gatherings followed the cycles of the moon, and her religious celebrations followed that of the sun. On that particular year, the ceremony of Ashoura had coincided with Easter. To feed both the celebrants and the mourners, she had to wake up early to make the pudding and bake sweet bread for the church as well. The ar
oma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the one coming from the pot of saffron pudding, and every once in a while, one of her children would poke a head into the small kitchen to see what concoction was being prepared.
Armineh had heard that if one made a prayer when making the pudding for Ashoura, and traces of a hand formed on the crust, it meant that the pot was blessed, and the prayer would be answered. The hand symbolized the five holy ones, but she wasn’t sure which ones. She made a silent orison nonetheless, seeking the protection of all who were holy.
Armineh could hear Yahya run outside the moment she called him. She went to the kitchen window and saw him lifting himself above the first branch or two, shielding his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun. He then ran back in, grabbed Armineh’s arm and rounded up his siblings, shouting the dreaded word “Moghoal” to his left and right as he pushed Armineh and the kids down to the wine cellar, the only place in the house almost hidden from view. This sanctuary had other advantages. They kept wine barrels, containers of pickles and honey as well as rolls of cheese there. That would keep them well-fed for as long as it took for the monsters to leave.
Armineh had run in and out a few times to gather what provisions she deemed necessary and was quite out of breath. Hearing the screaming of the neighbors outside, she locked the cellar door for the last time. They sat on the bare floor, overlaid with slabs of gray stone. A layer of brick covered the concave ceiling of the small enclosure built by her late husband. Armineh thanked God that Yousef had his sweater on for it was cold and damp down there. The weak light of a flickering wax taper illuminated the faces of her children, the twins, Yahya and Yousef. Then a sinking feeling, a cold sensation gripped her, where is Ida? “Where is Ida?” she asked barely audible, trembling at the thought.
“Where is Ida?” she suddenly shrieked in horror.
“Ze zlipped out to fetch her doll right before you clozed the door,” Yousef said meekly.
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